Ea Cadit
by Rynn Abhorsen
Summary: Title means "She is Falling" in Latin (Thank you azndragon). After Spike returns, Fays finds herself confronting her inner demons in the Bebop's bathroom, with only a loaded gun to help her. WARNING: Contains mature themes ONESHOT


The title (Is Est Cado) means "she is falling" in Latin.

A warning: Little kiddies probably shouldn't read this. However, considering I know you will anyway, it doesn't really matter. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! glare So anyway, enjoy.

* * *

"No..."

It would not be easy, that much she knew. Her bare feet curled, trying to remove flesh from frigid steel. It was pointless. She craned her neck up, tearful eyes meeting smooth steel. Why was she here, curled up in the bathroom, seeking to disappear within its bare and unforgiving walls?

"I'm so stupid!" She cried, lashing out, foot meeting the toilet with a harsh clang. Pain shot up through her leg, and she whimpered slightly. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes she sobbed, the pressure from her palms keeping more tears from leaking out. A few minutes passed before she could breathe normally, her hiccupping cries slowly ebbing. She traced the outline of her gun, the contours of the deadly weapon familiar to her weathered hands.

Curling into an even tighter ball, she cradled the handgun to her chest as if it was a perverse child. Beginning to rock back and forth on the balls of her feet, she whispered soothingly to herself. "So simple, so easy," the woman murmured, "Just a little bit of pain, and then it's all over, all gone..."

She trailed off, content to listen to the silence. It was not comforting, but rather oppressive, filling the small room until she thought the pressure would make her head explode.

"Stop it!" She screamed, anguished cries reverberating around the bathroom. "Please, just stop..."

She skittered backwards, pushing herself even farther against the walls, until her posture was rigid against it. Slowly, languidly, she closed her eyes, choosing to face the darkness of her mind rather than the clinical nakedness of the bathroom. But even her own mind rebelled against her, voices creeping into her like parasites. _He left you, _they said, oily and persuasive, _he left you..._

"But," she sobbed, raking her fingernails down her face, digging trenches in her pale skin, "But he came back!"

The voices laughed cruelly, and continued their mockery. _So he came back, why does that matter? It wasn't for you. He just came back because he was here first. Shame on you, thinking yourself good enough for him! Why would he care? Why would anyone care? You aren't worth their time; you're just a stupid, worthless, PATHETIC little girl! _

"No, I'm not! I'm not, please, just stop!"

The voices would not, electing to sum it all up in one question, _if you aren't pathetic, then why can't you finish the job?_

Her eyes flew open, and she sobbed out one word, "No." She rolled over onto her stomach, looking like a child prostrating itself in church, before she began to pound her forehead into the steel floor, the little grooves hammered into it imprinted upon her skin. The echoes of her self induced torture pervaded the ship, but she continued her disfigurement, not caring as blood began to obscure her vision, as it ran into her open mouth.

She continued her sobbing, even as her stomach railed against her, and she was forced to bend over the toilet, emptying the meager contents into its porcelain bowl. The voices started up again, approval evident in their tone, _that's a good girl; see how much better you feel? _

Trembling, she clawed at the counter, and using it for leverage managed a standing position. Her eyes found the mirror. The blood from her forehead was beginning to dry, forming rivulets on her face. She took pleasure in the wildness of her appearance, in the complete insanity that seemed to permeate her very being.

A pair of scissors lay on the counter, she picked them up, watching the light bend and refract on their gleaming surface. Smiling, she began to hack at her hair, letting it fall in abstract patterns on the blood stained floor. Satisfied with her haphazard appearance she picked up the handgun.

Footsteps, coming closer. She listened intently. Only two steps, so it couldn't be Jet, he was still using the cane. So it had to be...

"Spike." Falling to her knees she grabbed the gun, her knuckles turned white from the pressure of her grip. Sliding back into the corner she pressed the gun to her temple.

Stupid... 

She closed her eyes.

He stopped outside the bathroom.

_Worthless..._

Her finger found the trigger.

"Dammit," he said, "open the door!"

_PATHETIC..._

Her eyes flew open as she realized the door wasn't locked.

She laughed at the thought of him seeing her die.

Three, two, one...

"Faye!"

And it was over.

He wrenched the gun from her shaking hands, and quickly surveyed the damage. Her shorn hair, her bleeding forehead, the semi-digested food in the toilet, the gun he had pulled from her hands...

"Jesus, Faye! What the hell is wrong with you?"

She smiled at the concern in his words, mourned her lost chance, and laughed at the craziness in her voice as she said, "Everything."


End file.
